


Death is a Jealous Lover

by redqueenequilibrium



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 15:06:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5790088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redqueenequilibrium/pseuds/redqueenequilibrium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You can’t love me,” he says with a laugh and a tempting smile, “If you do,” he leans close and whispers into your ear, “you’ll die.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death is a Jealous Lover

Your love story has no happy ending.

Because it turned out you were nobody, a stepping stone on the pathway of his life - simple toneless accompaniment so, so far from second fiddle to a much grander tale that’s spanned perhaps some hundred years or more.

Even so.

You hope that, at least, his story - in which you were merely a fleeting part - will have one.

* * *

 

His name is Felix.

You meet him at a somewhat lackluster part of your life, as you drifted, uncertain about what you hoped to do, how you hoped to do it, looking for some form of excitement in the dark and hidden underbelly of society, hoping to spark the inspiration that will bring meaning back to the art you hope to create.

In your explorations, looking for places that might show you the allure of the dark, you see him the first time, playing cards in a dark corner of an illicit gambler’s bar.

He’s a splash of colour in a dark and dirty world, dressed cleanly in button down of grey, dark jeans, clean shoes, and a bright orange tie that matches the highlights in his messy styled hair.

From the moment you enter the establishment, he immediately catches your eye, not only with his brazen splash of colour, but with the charming lilt of his voice, heard occasionally over the din of the bar and the murmur of the game’s spectators, the fluid and lively movements of his arms, the brightness of his smiles, and he keeps your gaze all evening, as you find a place to settle at the bar, angle yourself so you can watch him through the night.

You watch him play his cards and argue with his opponents, flirt with his admirers and laugh with his supporters as he passes the hours, flipping cards and spinning chips, losing fortunes then winning them back twice over.

What a contrast he is, to the dank and shifty characters you expected to observe. A shining beacon in a world of dark intentions. Even when you spot the movements of his hands while he distracts others with his cards and his charming handsome face, notice that he doesn’t play each hand fair, cheating his opponents when he feels inclined, to you he is still something bright and fair to be recognized and admired.

At the end of the night, he swindles each unfortunate gambler at the table out of half a fortune, and you can’t even find the resolve to point it out, because he does it so well, the others don’t even notice how he’s played them all with calculated losses, frequent enough to move suspicion onto someone else.

By the end of the night, he’s won sizably, and even manages to scapegoat someone else as the card shark of the evening. He grins when they drag the other man out, and laughs brazenly when they lean towards him to denounce the other man for what he’s done.

He winks at you when he catches you staring and not once does his charm-filled smile falter in the night.

You don’t fall for him so quickly.

But it’s a near thing.

* * *

 

You float around the establishment for a week before you approach him, watching the tables he frequents when he’s there, muster the courage to approach the other patrons when he’s not.

A number of them make fun of you, know you’re green, unlike their lot. Others try to tempt you, flirt with you, try to coerce you into playing their games. You’re not interested in them, and eventually they stop.

All of them warn you about him. “Be careful,” some say as they giggle; “There’s something dangerous about him,” other say as they frown.

“Death follows him,” mutters the last, as you watch Felix saunter in, “I advise you keep your distance.”

Their words make no sense to you. You don’t heed them when you swallow back your fears, clutch the straps of your bag over your shoulder, mull over the words you plan to speak as you approach.

“I’d like to propose a wager,” you blurt out when you’re near enough, when Felix is sitting at a table alone, tapping his fingers on the glass of his bottle.

“Oh?” he asks with a grin, tipping the bottle to one side with his finger on the rim, then the other when he spots you standing nervously to his side.

“One hand,” you say, staring determinedly ahead, feeling the burn of the stares of other patrons as they turn to see the spectacle unfold, “just you and me.”

He leans closer, propping his head up in his hand. There are rings of silver stuck through his brow and his ears, a beauty mark dotted under his eye, “And what do you have to offer?” he asks, spinning idly the rings on his fingers.

You swallow your fears, your cautions, and pull open your bag, drop enough cash on the table to cause the other patrons to murmur, make Felix raise an eyebrow in surprise.

He laughs, delighted, “…and from me, you want…?”

“Your time,” you state, firm.

“Time,” he repeats, as the patrons who have gathered turn to each other and laugh at the absurdity of your gamble.

“Spend the rest of the night with me,” you ask, try not to sound desperate as you rest your hands on the table, “If I win,” you remember to add, “of course.”

“Idiot,” someone nearby yells, “you don’t need to play for his time. Not when you can just pay for it.”

You blush as you glare back, indignant, and insulted on Felix’s behalf. How dare they suggest you would do this for simply sex? How dare they speak like Felix would so freely give it?

Felix isn’t the least bothered by the jeers of the others, instead leans back, raises a hand as someone behind him passes forward a deck, “Alright,” he agrees as you take a seat at his table, “one game. Your money for my time,” he outlines again, to be sure, waiting for you to nod before he deals the cards.

You win the hand, despite what should be your inexperience dooming you out of the savings your father left you.

As he sets down his cards with a humble smile to concede his loss, amidst the jeering and the laughs of the small crowd gathered to watch, you can’t help but think that he let you win.

* * *

 

You spend the night wandering through town in his company, and you are delighted to find he is not simply just a skilled gambler with good looks. You were right to think more of him, you think, gratified that your initial attraction to his bright form is justified by what other traits he has to offer.

He’s a clever delight, full of wit and insight: easy to speak to, full of wit that makes you laugh. You are not bored, once, in his company, though all you two do in the night is talk.

He’s a wanderer, Felix, new to the city, floating through it to see the sights, find his bearings before he settles in. He tells you enough to make you curious, not enough to hand you all the answers.

By the end of the night, you know he is educated, at least a little classically, though most of his knowledge is street smart. He’s intelligent and tricky, though you knew that from the way he plays cards, and his way with words inspires in you envy, because even as a writer at times you struggle with the rhythm of your work.

He’s fond of food, and money, and the freedom to do as he wishes, claims to be well-versed in martial arts, and when you dare to ask about his past, he is reluctant to relive the details, looks a little unsettled at the thought, and you back away from the topic, though the mystery makes a home in your thoughts.

You’ve never been so pleased before, in the simple company of just one man, wasting the hours talking about everything and nothing, and you do what you can more to learn as much as you can about him.

“Can I see you again?” you ask, when you finish the night at a diner, eating breakfast before the sunrise, as Felix drinks his coffee, black.

“Can you?” he asks, teasing back, with a tilt of his head, “Should have wagered for more time.”

You stutter, “I…”, try to find words that won’t make you appear so desperate for his company, try to be eloquent in your desire to be friends, or perhaps more.

“We’ll see,” he says, before you can find the words, gesturing for the check as he pulls out a silver credit card.

“I have one last question,” you ask, before he signs his receipt to leave.

“Go ahead,” he says, with a nod, sliding the tray closer.

“Why did you let me win, tonight? When we played the wager for your time?” you ask, curious to know the answer, “You could have easily won the hand, taken my money and no one would have been the wiser.”

Felix grins as he spins the tray and its papers, tilts his head coyly as he flips the pen fluidly through his fingers, “Because you were interesting,” he answers, signing the receipt with a flourish before sliding the tray towards you with his fingers.

He’s left you his number, you realize as he sweeps out the diner. It’s written neatly with looping curves and trailing lines, on the receipt he was meant to keep.

A gift for you, you muse when you study it to enter it into your phone. You wagered half your inheritance for his time, and he has gifted you with the promise that you can request for more of it in the future, ask for his company, appeal for his presence.

A dangerous wager, your father would have said - he would have been angry, with what you risked with the fortune he left you - and perhaps you ought never to have proposed such a game. And yet, what rewards you have reaped with such a gamble.

* * *

 

Felix quickly becomes a fixture in your drab and quiet life. His presence is the spark that brings colour to your experiences, life to your work, joy and amusement to your thoughts.

You crave his company, endlessly. he’s an addiction you can’t resist, a temptation you can’t deny. You spend endless hours in his company, try to find new places to keep his interest, find new things to do that you think he may like. When he can’t find time to spend with you, is too busy with work or other things, or what commitments he has after dark, you text him endlessly, savour the pleasure that follows when he replies back.

You stop frequenting the dark places in which you met him, satisfied with your dip into the other side, pleased enough with what you’ve gotten from it. Felix never does, but you don’t stop him. A part of him belongs there, rubbing shoulders with the dangerous and immoral types who frequent there, and he brings enough of the thrill with him when you see him.

To you, he is exhilarating, he inspires you to try new things, things you’d never have thought to do, some of them dangerous, others not so much.

You dare to think that before you met him, you didn’t quite know the meaning of living life as fully as you could.

* * *

 

“Can you keep a secret?” he asks once, when you take him out for tea, poking at his slice of cake as you fiddle with your tea.

“Of course I can,” you reply, insist, because you already keep what secrets you can, jealously covet Felix’s company and time, hiding the treasures of his company from your few friends.

“I cheat at cards,” he whispers, watching carefully to see what you’d think, how you’ll react.

“I know,” you laugh, because you’ve known for so long, relieved the secret isn’t something bigger, despite knowing still you’d never tell if it was.

Felix smiles, but he keeps his gaze steady, watching you carefully as he chews on a strawberry.

“I’ve never told,” you say back, just to reassure him, “I’ll never tell.” It’s a dangerous game, cheating dangerous men while they play cards. You like Felix too much to risk his life over games and cards and cash bills.

“Alright,” he says, finally, deciding you’re trustworthy, leaning back to chew thoughtfully on his treat.

You’re pleased that he trusts you, but, as you sip your tea, you can’t help the funny thought that perhaps he’d been testing you by asking you the question.

* * *

 

After that he tells you more, though not all the time it is honest. Still, you crave more of his stories, yearn to learn more about what he keeps hidden away.

Sometimes what he says are inane truths, honest statements like his favourite time of day, favourite animal, what he likes so much about your company.

Other times it is outlandish lies, fantastic tales even you struggle to believe as truth.

“I’m immortal,” he tells you once, while you two lounge in your studio apartment, you writing ideas and story thoughts in your notebook, him fiddling with your camera as you two listen to your playlist of ambient sounds.

“Well your image certainly will be,” you tease as he grins at the lens, “with how many pictures you’ve taken of yourself.”

“No,” he denies, as he places it on your coffee table, flipping around to rest on his front on your couch, “I mean I can’t die,” he insists, resting his head on his crossed arms.

“Don’t be silly, Felix,” you scold, scratching words into paper, glancing up only to meet his steady brown-eyed stare, “Everybody dies.”

“…I’m aware of that,” he replies, seriously, “But I never will.”

You stop writing, consider him carefully, as he stares quietly back. What a thought to be had, you think, so certain he is in himself, so proud, that he thinks himself indestructible. “Death comes for everyone, Felix,” you say, quietly, to remind him he is human.

“…perhaps,” he sighs, instead, looking away with a pout, “but he never stays for me.”

You don’t know what he means, and if you are honest, you prefer not to think of it. To you, Felix’s history is still a mysterious blur, and though he tells you more of himself, in all the time you spend in his company, he rarely divulges much, save for such ludicrous claims.

As you look back down on your work and he dozes, you wonder perhaps if his past had much tragedy, if perhaps Felix suffered something that would make him think seriously such thoughts.

You are unsettled the rest of the day, and you cannot find calm until he wakes up and complains that he’s hungry.

* * *

 

It is a sunny day, the first time you find the courage to kiss him, fighting past your nerves and your jitters to pull him close and plant your lips upon his own.

For a few eternal seconds, you wait, suspended on the edge as he pauses, hesitates, uncertain.

Then he responds, sliding his hands up your arms, round your shoulder and your waist, to pull you closer as he tilts his head to pull you deeper in.

You are giddy, you admit it, with the positive response. You’ve bided days and weeks, perhaps months, hoping to learn enough about him, waiting for the right moment, the right time, building your quiet confidence to make the move you’ve wanted to make, since you won the wager for his time.

And what a kiss it is, a treasure so many others would envy. One that blooms such warmth past your lips through your chest to your core, lights up your nerves, causes such a flutter from within. If the first kiss is like this, what could you hope to have with the others that will follow?

“Tell me seriously,” he says, when you separate, breathing quickened as you two catch your breaths, “How long did you think about doing that?” he teases.

“Since the day I met you,” you reply, honestly, trying to hold back the burn of your embarrassment with the admission.

He laughs, and it’s a beautiful sound, even as it mocks you for your quiet obsession.

“Alright then,” he says simply, cautiously reaching down to hold your hand, “Congratulations, on making your move.”

“Will you go out with me?” you ask, just to be sure, still, so nervously, uncertain.

“I already am,” he replies, and you tug him close through the elation to press another kiss to his grinning mouth.

* * *

 

“I’m in love with you,” you admit, not too long later. Perhaps some days, some weeks after, while you lie beside him, in your bed.

“Are you?” he asks, as if he doesn’t believe you, flippant and cheeky as ever, even though you lie beside him and pour out the secrets of your heart.

“Yes.” you reply seriously, “I am,” you insist, “I love you.”

Felix doesn’t laugh, but he does shake his head with a fainter smile, “No, you don’t,” he reiterates, meeting your gaze, trying to reason you down from your lofty claim.

He doesn’t know how honest you are being, how deep your affections for him lie.

“Felix,” you say, trying to get his attention, to make him pay attention to your words.

“You can’t love me,” he says, half-seriously, meeting your earnest gaze with his own, “If you do,” he leans close to whisper, voice trailing off as he speaks, “you’ll die.”

You resist the urge to shake him, to make him pay attention, stop playing jokes, “Don’t be silly,” you scold, “I mean it.”

“I’m not joking,” he says, seriously, and you pause, as you watch his expression shift, from carefree smiles to stern contemplation. He rarely looks so serious, speaks so deliberately, so you listen, “You will,” he says, certain, “They all do. The one before you,” he whispers, “and the one before as well.”

Your gaze jumps, unconsciously to the marks upon his skin. You didn’t know until you slept with him, but Felix is covered with scars. Patches and lines and marks like misshapen stars, on his chest, his legs, his shoulders, scattered along his back, his torso his upper arms.

What dangerous circumstances must he had been in before, in the company of his past lovers to leave him with such marks, and at the end of it, only him the survivor of the relationship?

You’re not so dangerous, you decide, you’re remarkably tame in contrast. These concerns don’t apply to you.

You shake your head, to reassure him, uncomfortable with the uncertain look in his gaze, the vulnerable undertone to his voice. “Coincidence,” you insist, “It has to be. They didn’t die because they loved you.”

Felix manages a chuckle, but it doesn’t echo with his usual humour. To him your words are empty, and he knows better, his past, than you. “I don’t love you,” he says, after a pause, shaking his head, and even as you think he means to deter you, you know that he’s honest when he says that he does not return your affections to such a level as you hold for him.

“That’s alright,” you say easily, despite the longing twinge in your chest. You didn’t expect him to. A flighty creature such as Felix wouldn’t contemplate regularly the idea of love. It will take time for him to consider it, to get used to what it entails. “I just wanted you to know,” you say, to initiate the first step to acclimating him to the idea, hoping it would catch in his mind so he might, one day develop feelings that are the same, “I can wait, Felix.”

“You’re an idiot,” he laughs at you, and you stuff down your hurt feelings even as your heartbeat quickens when he leans close. You’re not sure if he thinks you stupid for loving him because he doesn’t love you, or if you’re stupid for persisting, despite his, and now you remember the others’, warnings.

“Would you give me a chance?” you manage to say without a stutter, asking as earnestly as you can, to bare your feelings fully for him to see.

“I already am, aren’t I?” he asks in return, already forgetting his warnings, shaking his head, knowing you will not so easily be deterred.

Your heart rushes when he kisses you, and you surge forward to push him back, to pin him down so you can show him just how deep your affections run, so he can’t deny what it is you feel.

As he reciprocates your actions, responds delightedly to your movement, gasps softly at your touch, you think that maybe, perhaps, your love might have a chance.

* * *

 

Felix is reckless.

Perhaps you should have known, before, with the way he so brazenly cheated dangerous men at cards, the easy confidence he had when he spent time in sketchy establishments after dark, but it isn’t until you are so close to him, isn’t until you begin to worry constantly about him, that you know.

He likes to sit on rooftops, balance precariously on railings and beams and hang off the stairs of the fire escape on your building to scare you and show off. He takes shortcuts through dark alleys, doesn’t wear his helmet unless you remind him to when he takes to the streets on his motorbike, jaywalks constantly, even when there is so slim a margin to make it across the street. He does these frequently when it’s just you to see, is more careful during the day when there are more to witness.

You hope it’s not born from a desire to impress you when you two are out.

He never backs down from a fight, and this perhaps, you decide, is his greatest flaw. You are rarely there to witness them, but you’re always there to patch him up.

“Why do you do it?” You ask him, once, when he appears after dark with bloody knuckles and an ugly bleeding scrape across his cheekbone.

“They always think they can win,” he responds back, and you can’t find the words to make him stop.

Once an ugly bar fight lands him in the hospital, and you panic when he calls you, in the quiet hours of early, early morning and lets you know where he is.

You take a cab to the hospital, wandering frantically through its busy white halls, until you find him, in the hallway by the terminal ward, of all places, staring in with a pensive look at the dead and dying.

“What are you doing?” you ask, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Nothing,” he replies, automatically. His knuckles are wrapped again, and there’s a square bandage taped to the side of his head. He moves his left shoulder gingerly, and you’re sure, certain, he’ll have bruises, blooming beneath his skin.

“You really think you’re invulnerable, don’t you?” you hiss, worriedly as he turns away.

“I never said I was that,” he mutters, chided as you scold him.

“You told me you were immortal,” you snap, trying to make him see how silly it sounds.

“That’s not the same thing,” he responds, and refuses to answer when you pry for answers about what happened, shifts as requested when you demand to see the extent of his injuries.

“I worry about you, Felix,” you admit when you’re done, holding tightly to his bandaged hands.

“You shouldn’t,” he answers, and you struggle not to shake him, fondly, as he turns away from you to keep staring in at the occupied beds. Why is this so interesting to him? You wonder. What could compel a man to watch others as they lie, dying?

“I hate it here,” you mutter, as you lean against him, trying to pull his attention away, to drag him towards the elevator back to the ground floor.

“The hospital?” he asks, as finally, he follows, “Why?”

“I feel like death waits in its halls to take the sick,” you shudder, hooking an arm around his uninjured one, “Like… in a dark hall or empty room, if you wander in you’ll see the Grim Reaper.”

Felix shakes his head with a smile, “Nah,” he says, simply, dismissing your fantastic thoughts of Death come in person.

“Don’t believe in the Grim Reaper?” you ask, in tease, because you know both of you don’t.

“Oh, he might exist,” Felix says, instead, which surprises you, knowing how flippant he is in the face of danger, how uninterested he is of fantasy and lore and religion, “But if he’s here, you’d never see him. You can’t unless you’re due to die.”

You stop in front of the elevator, waiting as he presses the button, “How do you know?” you ask, quietly, curious to know what he thinks.

“I’ve tried,” he replies simply, as the doors open and you two step in.

Something cold sinks into your chest, as an anxious worry again makes itself known, “Tried what?” you dare to ask, as Felix leans against the wall.

Despite what you ask, your desire to know, Felix doesn’t answer. You try not to let it bother you as he holds your hands and pulls you along, but it does, long until after he’s fallen asleep by your side and you reach around him to tug him close, to assure yourself he’ll be here as long as you need him, that as long as you love him, he’ll stay close.

* * *

 

“I wish you wouldn’t,” you tell him once, when you two find some time, after he’s fully recovered, to sit on the high rooftop of your building to watch the setting sun over the homemade dinner you two managed to successfully make.

You’ve managed to keep him from returning to the underground bars, and gambling rings after dark, if only because he’s injured, and you’ve relished the time it’s given you, to spend in his company instead.

“Wouldn’t what?” he asks, as he sits on the ledge, legs over the side facing inwards, thankfully, to face you, instead of out to dangle over the edge.

“Live so dangerously,” you clarify, as you eye the long drop, the comfortable seat he’s made of the edge.

“You only live once,” he retorts as you fret, “Shouldn’t you enjoy it?”

“With prudence,” you remind him, as you fiddle with your tupperware, “Don’t you want to live a long life?” you ask.

Felix gives a wry smile, one that speaks of years of experience. You hate this smile. It reminds you too much of how little of his past he’s shared with you, that despite how long you’ve been with him, there are still things about him he won’t share. “My life is long enough as it is,” he says, and it returns, the anxious flutter in your gut.

“Felix,” you scold, frustrated with how little he cares.

“I won’t die,” he insists, certain as always, and you wish he’d understand the risks behind his actions.

“You can’t know that,” you say, somberly, in hopes that this time, he’ll listen.

“But I do.”

You give up, it’s so hard to convince him. The most you can do is remind him where he won’t remind himself, try your best to keep him safe where he won’t take the precautions to do so.

“…Why are you so reckless,” you ask, “in my company?”

Felix tilts his head in question, unsure of what it is you’re asking.

“I know you can be careful,” you say, “when there are witnesses to your dangerous acts.”

He wears his helmet when he rides during the day, doesn’t jaywalk when there’s pedestrians about. You wish he wouldn’t do his utmost to scare you, even if he doesn’t mean to.

“Because I trust you,” he says, simply, from where he sits, on the rooftop edge, leaning out over the precipice with the setting sun behind him to set the bleached and dyed strands of his hair aflame.

Warmth blooms in your chest, because he trusts you to keep him safe - that he believes you capable, someone with whom he feels secure. It is not yet the ‘I love you’ that you yearn for, but it’s one step closer, he’ll find those words one day, you’re sure. And yet a part of you wonders what exactly is it he means.

“I know you can keep a secret,” he murmurs as you lean close, heart a flutter as you kiss him, reaching around him to keep him anchored securely, so he doesn’t fall.

* * *

 

The longer you love him, the more you see how deep his fatalistic nature lies. You see how morbid his thoughts can run, realize how reckless he is, how far he takes his belief of his own invulnerability, how carelessly he thinks of death, how romantically he considers what comes beyond.

Despite knowing, seeing first hand how Felix takes measures to avoid getting hurt, how pleased he is with life, how easily he dodges the dangers, you worry. You worry immensely, because, even as Felix is so capable of taking care of himself, all it will take is a poorly timed thought, a sinister and dark temptation, and Felix will get hurt.

“Do you think…” he wonders aloud, as he lies in bed, curled up against you, “if I risk my life just enough, I could see the grim reaper without being marked for death?”

“…Why do you ask?” you ask. Your heart stutters nervously, unsettled as Felix traces patterns in the sheets with his nails. You worry because Felix would try it, just to see if he could, and only you, of the two of you, heed the risks of such a dangerous game.

“…Just idle thoughts,” Felix muses, turning to rest his head on his crossed arms, beside you. His words mean to dismiss the thought he had before, but it does little to sooth your anxious heart.

“You shouldn’t be so flippant about death,” you say, in reprimand, as Felix props his head up in his hand, gazing down at you with his amber-brown eyes.

“You worry too much,” he says with a casual smirk, looking down fondly as you fuss about in your mind. He thinks you cute, with how you fuss. You’re concerned he doesn’t take you seriously when you do.

“One day it might surprise you,” you respond, as somberly as you can, hoping Felix will see it, will understand, the concerned quirk of your brow, your serious features, how real the risks are if he takes his thoughts one step further.

“That would be nice,” he muses, instead, turning his head to gaze at nothing straight ahead, “It’s been a while,” he continues, absently as he thinks.

“A while what?” you ask. You’re not sure why, but an anxious worry begins gnawing from the inside of your chest.

He smiles faintly, still lost in thought or memory, a grin that is soft and so unlike the sharp and angled ones you’re so used to seeing.

“Since I’ve been surprised.”

All too soon the smile fades, before it picks up again, adopting once more sharp angles and cheeky corners, once he catches you staring. I’ll shower you with a hundred pleasant surprises, you think, if you would smile that way for me again.

* * *

 

“I love you,” he says finally, late one night while you’re working quietly on the couch beside him, as he fiddles with a glass of wine and reads surreptitiously over your shoulder.

It surprises you, so much so, you misspell three words and nearly knock the laptop off your knees to stare at him. So long you’ve wondered if he’ll ever say the words, you almost believed he never would.

“Don’t get so excited,” he says, as you set your work aside, then lunge forwards to kiss him, “I just thought I’d test the words out.”

“Do you mean it?” you ask, after you bowl him over, resting on top of him once you’re done kissing him.

He looks so embarrassed, you forgive the fact that he doesn’t answer, pressing him down to kiss him again as you pin him under.

“We should celebrate,” you say into his jaw as you grin.

“What, over three words?” he asks. So shameless he is in everything else, but as soon as you get him to consider his feelings, he’s shy, suddenly, once he gets the words out.

“Yes,” you insist, and you drag him up with you after you stand, take his hand in your own and quickly pull him out despite the late hour.

You intend to celebrate this night, because this - after weeks and months of work and quiet affection, and your hopes that eventually he’d return your affections, equal the depth with which you have them - has been what you’ve waiting for.

“Come on,” you say, and pull him out by the hand, to follow you as you make your way to the street, laughing with delight as you run.

* * *

 

You should have expected it, maybe, that such good fortune in your aspirations wouldn’t come without a cost.

You get one hour of his company, certain that he, indeed, does love you, wandering the streets, eager to celebrate, but unsure of how to go about it, wandering the streets, much like the first day you had in his company, talking and laughing and spending idle time together, before something goes wrong to temper your joy.

“Hey,” Felix mutters in a cautious tone, your first warning, as he tugs you back.

The second warning is the man with the knife.

The third, his friend with another blade, and his other friend with a gun.

You freeze in panic, ice in your veins, as you clutch at Felix’s arm, backing up so suddenly, you nearly trip over your feet.

They herd you back into an alley, Felix’s grip firm and soothing, even as he glares, full of irritation and annoyance, as you unhelpfully envision how it can all go wrong, curse your bad luck, try to think, helplessly, of ways to solve this problem.

“We don’t want any trouble,” you stutter, moving slowly, reaching for your wallet as Felix sneers at your attackers. You do your best to appease then, hoping to diffuse this dangerous situation quickly before somebody gets hurt.

Felix - foolish, reckless, Felix - does not share your sentiments, nor does he your fear. “You don’t know how to hold a knife,” he spits at the man waving the blade in his face.

“You’ll see how well I hold it when I carve your face up you cheeky shit,” the mugger snarls, and your heart jumps in fear as he moves foward with the blade.

“Wait–” you start to say, but you don’t get to finish your thought, because Felix has grown impatient.

He moves in a flash, striking the man’s arm aside with a precise and brutal motion, knocking the blade across the ground. The he elbows him in the neck and kicks him hard into the wall when he doubles over, turning away before he hits the ground wheezing, in pain and surprise.

After that he has no mercy for the others. He shoves you back as he passes you, and you stumble back, deeper into the alley as he takes on the second man with a knife, breaking his wrist to force him to drop his blade, snatching it as it falls, while the other man holds his handgun in his shaking grip, trying and failing to scare Felix into stopping.

Felix doesn’t pause, stares brazenly down the barrel of the gun as he slams the knife up into the chest of the man he stole it from, angling up and under the ribcage to strike his beating heart. Then he kicks him over so he topples, struggling to breathe through the pain and the shock and his rapidly failing heart.

The man with the gun can only stare in shock at his crippled, dying comrade, gun held in his slack and shaking grip, as he struggles to comprehend what exactly has happened.

Felix breaks his neck without a second thought, lunging and grabbing and twisting in a motion that is brutal and harsh and practiced while his attacker-turned-victim stares in shock at his doomed and dying partner.

You’re struck dumb, confused, scared - for yourself, and now for Felix - because Felix has just killed two men, so easily. He stabbed one - was far more experienced with the stolen knife than his would-have-been mugger - and snapped the neck of the other while he stared at his dead companion in shock at how their attempt at thievery had gone so wrong.

Intuitively, you know Felix can fight, but you’ve never considered this, with so little hesitation, such lethal precision, and now you are scared, because what happens now, when these bodies will be found? Because murder is against the law, and Felix is now a killer. What can you do to keep Felix from the torment of prison? Would the law accept the argument that such an act was done in defence, without malicious intention? Felix has saved your life, but now he’s gone and damned his own.

In your confusion - with your panic and your racing mind - you forget the final thief. So does Felix, as he stares down at what he’s done. The other man has recovered from the blow that knocked him aside, recovered his knife, has observed the ruthless manner in which Felix has dispatched his companions. He lunges forward while Felix’s back is turned, and you don’t see his furious, vengeful expression until it’s too late to make a sound.

You barely find the breath to yell, before the third man reaches round Felix’s neck, yanking him back with an angry shout and you barely form the scream of his name when he plunges the knife into his neck.

Felix jerks with the blow, eyes blown wide in shock, in the second after, unable to breathe, with the blade in his throat, before the thief tears his weapon across in a messy, unpracticed motion, ripping through his throat before yanking out the blade and stepping back.

Your breath escapes you in a helpless wheeze - you couldn’t even find the air to scream. You stand there, frozen, deeper in the alleyway, as Felix topples back, choking on his blood as it pours in a flood from his throat, expression still stuck in one of shock when he hits the ground hard on his back.

You watch him die in shock, unable to move, with static in your ears and cotton in your mouth, as he struggles fruitlessly to breathe, just once, through the blood staining the earth and filling his mouth, while the brightness fades quickly from his eyes. Felix dies quickly, and yet not quickly enough, and there is so little time for you to have said goodbye before he is still, limp and dead, his final breath whispering out of his lungs as he stares blankly into the night sky.

You can’t look away from his fresh corpse, can’t move closer to check for hopeful signs of life, can’t run to escape the reality of what has just happened so quickly, between one moment and the next.

You can’t believe that the unthinkable has happened. You can’t believe how quickly it all occurred.

Your shock makes you an easy target, because Felix’s killer isn’t done. He’s still so furious, over the failure of the mugging, the untimely death of his comrades - his friends.

You don’t notice him until he’s stabbed you, until he’s taken the same blade that is coated in Felix’s blood and plunged it into your abdomen.

You gasp as you stumble back, clutching at the wound deep in your gut. Then you hit the wall behind you, lose the strength in your knees as you slump down.

Your mugger - your murderer - suddenly looks scared, anger making way for fear, realizing, perhaps, the weight of his actions, understanding what possible ramifications there might be for him in life once this mess of bodies is found. He panics and he runs, crouching down to fumble for your wallet, but leaves your phone, dropping it in his haste and sprinting away, past you, and Felix, and the bodies of his dead companions as your mobile skitters across the floor.

You don’t struggle, don’t try to move. You don’t try to reach for help, cannot find the strength to crawl towards your phone, knocked aside, and forgotten in the panic of mugger who meant to rob you, but instead murdered Felix, and now you before he ran.

Because what point is there to living? Felix is dead. You had so much you wanted to do with him, so many more months you’d hoped to spend in his company, so much more you’d wanted to share. It’s so hard, to justify reasons to try harder to survive, when he lies, dead, so close, and yet so far from your reach. You vowed to yourself with such conviction to keep him safe, knowing how reckless he was, how fascinated he became each passing day with morbid thoughts and ideas of death.

You’ve failed yourself. Even worse: you’ve failed him.

So instead you lie on the dirty floor of this blood-stained alley, heartbreakingly far from the man you promised silently to love and keep safe, and you wait for death to come take you and release you from the painful grip of life.

And death does come, between one shuddering, weak breath, and a second, far weaker one; after a long and tired blink as your energy leaves you in waves and your vision wavers and darkness creeps in the corners. He melts into existence out of the empty air, so suddenly, your breath stutters in surprise, and you question to yourself if he arrived just now, or if he’s always been there, invisible until you were ready to perceive him there.

As it turns out, Death does come, to greet you in person as you go.

The Grim Reaper is not like the ones you, as a child, saw in your books and your cartoons and your comics, who collected souls when the bodies died, and sent them beyond into the ether. He wears no tattered cloak of black, carries no hulking blood-stained scythe, and his being is of flesh, not bone. No, as you struggle to battle back the encroaching darkness across your eyes, when you blink between one painful breath and the next exhausting gasp, you see death come, merely as a man, with dark skin and dark hair, dressed plainly in a dress uniform of dark grey, adorned with a plain silver choker and silver cirlets round his wrists, and marked with ragged scars to reflect the hardships of life.

Though he appears as an ordinary man, but he is unmistakeably of the Other, for his eyes glow silver in the night, and an infinite black mist trails after where he steps, crawls and hovers, floating lazily up his legs, curling round his hips and over his shoulders.

He is here to collect, and you watch as he raises idle hands, leans down to brush his hands over the dead as he walks by, and the simmering grey of their souls escape their bodies to sink into the darkness that surrounds him.

You shudder and you watch him as he strides into the alley, past the bodies of the dead. You’re next, you’re sure. Surely he is here to collect you, too, and yet he pays no attention to you, once he’s done reaping the men Felix managed to kill in his own and your defense, turns his attention strictly to Felix with such focus, you instinctively feel the urge to protest, to urge him to turn away and face you instead.

It is now you realize that Felix’s body has not yet released his soul.

Your heart flutters, in something like false hope, because he may yet be alive, the man you love, despite the ragged ugly line through his throat, despite how much of his precious blood paints the earth, how still he lies, how blankly he stares up into the star dotted sky.

The reaper stops over his body, looking down with a soft but heavy sigh. You want to plead, “No!” and “Please don’t take him”, because, maybe if he doesn’t, Felix may yet live. You dare to think, selfishly, as the reaper looks down at him, “You can’t have him,” but you don’t say it, because there is no breath in your lungs, and you know you have no say.

Felix is dead. A cowardly and greedy man reached round and slit his throat from ear to ear while his back was turned and he choked to death on his blood while you stood stupidly by and let it happen before you, too, were stuck with the blade.

Now you have no choice but to watch as Death comes to tear his soul from his corpse and send it off this earthly plane before He turns for yours.

Except he doesn’t.

You watch as the reaper crouches down, leaning over, resting a knee on the bloodstained pavement, looking down at Felix’s still and bloody corpse, with a firm and serious expression. Despite the humourless character of his face, somehow, his eyes seem to look on, tender, in the wake of what should be so impersonal and cruel an act.

You watch in silence, attention held, rapt, even as you slowly die, while this specter reaches for Felix’s face, sliding his hand gently up the side of his neck, through the smear of his blood, to rest it, lightly, alongside his face.

You watch as he caresses Felix’s cooling skin and brushes the messy hair from his dull eyes, all while gazing steadily on, with such a gentle expression, as if he is greeting not a corpse, but a slumbering lover.

There’s a pause then, as he crouches and waits, and you bleed and you watch, unable to find words to say, helpless to do anything to change what is to occur.

Then there’s a gasp - a wet arduous sound - and you sit in shock and you stare, jolt in surprise as your heart struggles to beat that much faster despite the loss of your blood, because against all odds, all chance, all evidence, Felix is alive.

He gasps for breath around the hole in his neck, shakes and shudders and whimpers in pain as he life returns to his frame, all while the reaper looks on, hand moving in a gentle caress, soothing while Felix shifts, anxious as awareness returns to his person.

Despite what you know, what the creeping end of your life tells you - surely, the mysterious figure must be a reaper here to collect dead souls -you want to think that this is no reaper after all.

When Felix can see again, when focus returns to his eyes, he looks up at the otherworldly man crouched over his form and he stills, struggling to breathe, still, while the wound still gapes open in his throat.

Then his expression shifts to one of such longing, like he knows this reaper, and he’s missed him, and you’re confused now, because how could Felix know the grim reaper who comes only when you are done and dead when all this time he’s been living?

He reaches for him, the reaper, and struggles to speak, a torturous gurgle of sound that pains you with his struggle, a name perhaps, that starts with a stuttering L, cracks in the middle, ends with a painful hissing ‘s’.

“Not yet,” the reaper says, quietly, his voice a deep and somber rumble, gently, as he rests a hand over the wound to remind Felix it’s still there.

He holds and he waits, as Felix lies still and stares, and for some long quiet moments, there is only silence, punctuated by the rasping breath as Felix breathes. In this time, you think, perhaps, you ought to be dead by now, life prolonged only by the reaper’s reluctance to act, to move away from the side of your miraculously recovering lover.

Then the reaper moves his hand away, and you blink as you bear witness to another impossible miracle, because the wound over Felix’s throat is closing, the deepest parts of it healed over already.

‘I’m immortal,’ you remember, Felix had once claimed. You’d called him silly, dismissed it because how could anyone be as such? And yet here he is, cheating death at the last, recovering so quickly from the mortal wound that all but killed him as the reaper watches him escape from what is surely Death’s grasp.

“Hey,” Felix manages to rasp after some time, a hoarse and quiet sound, “It’s been a while.”

How familiar a greeting to this bringer of death, and you can’t find the energy to puzzle out how this familiarity can be. So you just watch it all unfold, like the events in a film, something unreal you can bear witness to as you wait your turn to die.

“So it has,” the reaper says, from where he is crouched, “It was sloppy, Felix,” he scolds, as he reaches to help when Felix struggles to push himself up, “He shouldn’t have been able to touch you.”

“I know,” Felix wheezes, when he finally manages to sit up, arm shaking in exertion, or perhaps in pain, as he leans against the reaper, the wound already shrinking in width to a thinner bleeding line, “I let him.”

The reaper grimaces, radiating disapproval, and you agree with that sentiment, as he rests a hand on Felix’s shoulder, tilting him so he sits up straighter. He’s so pale, still, his recovery still shaking off the lingering grip of blood loss, pain, death. “You know you can’t do that, Felix,” the reaper says in reprimand, but his voice carries no demanding tone, no anger.

“I wanted to see you,” Felix replies, so earnestly it pains you, reaching to hold onto the man’s arm, clutching tightly at the cloth of his regal grey uniform.

Suddenly now, you understand what it all meant, all those strange conversations, those morbid thoughts Felix never finished airing, his faraway expressions when you catch him lost in memory, his looks of restrained envy when he passed the wards of the dying, his serious considerations as he contemplated seeing the specter of death, acting dangerously to call for his attentions, looking for ways to see beyond the veil of life.

It’s still clean, the reaper’s dark grey outfit. Despite kneeling in the blood, running his hands through the stain of it, the reaper is still clean, his supernatural being untouched by the stains of life.

“A moment of weakness, Felix,” he says, as he pulls your - or perhaps he is his - pale lover closer, moving his legs to kneel more comfortably on the bloody ground.

“I can’t die,” Felix mutters, lets himself be moved as he breathes deeply, shaking as the wound finally seals, “What does it matter?”

“If you abuse it, I won’t be allowed to come,” the reaper replies, pulling him close so his head rests against his shoulder, “And you suffer, Felix,” he bites out, running a hand through Felix’s messy highlighted hair, “It matters to me.”

Felix just sits for a moment, savours the touch, “I’m fine,” he says, somehow petulant, even with the weight of his conversation, “The pain of death and being rejected by it is nothing compared to the pain of living.”

The reaper doesn’t agree, leaning back to give him a look of disapproval, “Felix…” he says, with such admonishment, Felix can’t help but smile as he leans back to look him in the eye.

“I missed you,” Felix says, quietly, running a hand gently down the reaper’s arm, the other hand reaching up to his temple, to trace with his thumb, the curve of the scar beneath his eye.

The reaper doesn’t answer in words, but he does in gestures - a hesitant touch as he traces his fingers down the side of Felix’s face, the firm rest of his hand along his side to hold him steady when he wavers, still feeling the lingering brush of death.

It’s so intimate, what you see, the quiet, chaste gestures, gentle touch, the steady and firm, yet tender gaze they share as they refuse to take their eyes off each other.

You’ve never seen Felix look so lost, even as he smiles, and this smile is one you’ve only seen once before now: something soft and precious and beautiful and private. A treasure he keeps to himself and never bestows willingly, except, it seems now, for the reaper who loves him jealously.

In all the time, since he was revived, Felix has not looked your way once.

It is in this quiet moment, as you lie dying, slumped against the alley wall, bleeding out, you realize in all the time you’ve shared with your lover - spending time in his bright-eyed company, confessing your feelings and acting on your affections, sharing secrets, sharing beds - despite the words he said and you believed, that you confessed and he accepted - Felix has never loved you.

Perhaps Felix has never loved anyone, save for this spirit of death, in all the years - and you realize now, it could be years upon years upon years - that he has been alive.

“Stay,” Felix orders, demands, after their quiet, private moment, and you look on, envious, in pain, silent as you try to puzzle out all the lies he’s ever told you.

“…I’m always with you, Felix,” the other man deflects, with words delivered with such honesty, you cannot believe he’s saying simply empty words to comfort. Perhaps he always is, has followed Felix, watched him live his life as fully as he is able, a ghost that watches over him, while he remains ignorant to his presence.

“I never see you,” Felix retorts, frowning, looking down, reaching for the reaper’s hands to hold.

“Because the living cannot see me,” he explains, patiently, as if he’s explained it many times before, “And you are very much alive,” he points out, as he gives him his hands to hold, “You know this, Felix.”

“It’s not fair,” Felix complains in a whisper, tightening his grip.

“Perhaps it’s more than fair,” the reaper says, looking down where Felix is holding his hands, and turning them over to brush his fingers against the silver circlets round his wrist.

Maybe, you think, those aren’t fancy ornaments after all, but shackles, and the choker round his neck no more than a collar denoting servitude - a punishment he is living, collecting souls of the dead on the behalf of whatever otherworldly master to whom he answers.

“How many more years, Locus,” Felix asks, quietly, sliding his hands away from the metal, back into the hands of his otherworldly partner, “before this sentence will end?”

“…Be patient, Felix,” he replies, unable to give an answer, as Felix leans close again, looking down at the hands in his grasp, shifting his grip to interlace their fingers.

For how long have they known each other, you wonder. For how long have they existed like this, one trapped on the mortal plane, the other a servant of the plane beyond, unable to meet?

For a moment, they stay close, before, suddenly, Felix pulls the other man’s hand up to his face, studying it closely, before he turns back to face him,“You’re leaving me again,” he says, voice uncomfortably wavery.

“I’m right here,” the reaper assures him, pressing his lips to his forehead, but Felix pulls away.

“No,” Felix protests, anxious, clutching tightly to the reaper’s grey sleeve, as the colour returns to his human cheeks, and the shaking of his body stills and his breaths grow stronger with his dread, “you’re fading… I can’t–”

“Felix,” the reaper - Locus, is, or perhaps was, his name - says, hands moving to hold him steady, palms resting gently against the sides of his head, “I’m here,” he promises, such solemn, sincere words, as he rests his forehead against Felix’s own, “I am always here.”

Felix doesn’t cry, though it looks a near thing, as he clutches tightly at the hand against his ear, looking up to study - to memorize - the features of his ethereal partner’s face - the details and shapes and angles - he must so rarely see.

Then he surges forth and kisses him, presses his lips against the reaper’s own in a desperate kiss, hasty and rushed and anxious, as if to catch him before he loses the chance. The other man tilts his head and accepts him, pushing back to slow it down from something panicked to something bittersweet, but no less deep - something memorable and wistful and precious to be treasured, because there may not be a chance for years to come before Felix will see him again.

You feel like such a voyeur, watching such a kiss, and yet, you lack the will or strength to look away.

“…I love you,” Felix whispers, when they separate, foreheads touching once again, and he says those words so differently, from how he recited them to you, earlier today. When he said them to you they sounded so practiced, like things he says easily all day, but you believed him because Felix was so convincing, and before now you couldn’t have known what the sound of those words would have been like if he meant them.

Said to the reaper, his words take on new meaning, full of lifetimes of feelings and filled with the lost thoughts and quiet promises he hoarded while he lacked the ability to see beyond the veil that separates them, to say them in person.

Now that you can compare, it is so clear to you that he couldn’t love you, not even if he wanted to.

It breaks your heart, and yet, it soothes it a little, because, you think, despite that, he tried.

“And I you,” the reaper answers, as he closes his eyes, his voice a low and somber hum, laden, too, with meaning, and promise and feeling.

For a moment they have each other, that one solemn vow keeping them tethered on the same plane, foreheads pressed together, hands clasped between them.

Then the moment is lost, as Felix’s hand slips, passing through the reaper’s own, and he gives a sudden breath in surprise, catching himself before he slips forward, as the presence before him fades from his awareness suddenly. Suddenly Felix is blind, and deaf to the man kneeling before him, eyes darting back and forth, unable to locate what he knows and remembers is there. He leans back, settling on his haunches, and takes a deep, shuddering breath to collect himself, all while the reaper looks on helplessly, resignedly, looking, for the first time since he became visible to you, at the moment you began dying, somewhat lost.

To Felix he is no longer there. But you see him clearly, still, because Felix is alive and well, now, but you are still bleeding out with a blade buried in your gut, waiting slowly to die.

“Only I do,” the reaper whispers to Felix, reaching out to run his hand down the side of his face, the curve of his neck, though, Felix doesn’t hear him, and his otherworldly fingers merely pass through his form. For the first time since you saw him, after watching him and Felix speak and exchange their precious few words, the reaper looks, now, sad.

How hard must it have been, for him to hide those feelings of loss, to appear steady and unflappable, while Felix could still see him.

Then he turns to look right at you, after ignoring you for so long, and his gaze is so hard and severe that despite your resignation to your fate, since he first appeared, you are suddenly afraid.

You are scared, but you don’t know why. The reaper has come because it is written that you would die. Is that not how it works?

You cannot push down the anxiety in your mind, as the reaper moves to stand, begins his steady prowling walk deeper into the alley, where you lie slumped, waiting to die. His face betrays no emotion, but the line of his brow is too severe for his dealing with you to not be somewhat personal. You are confused because you don’t know him, have never known any Locus in your life.

And yet, he looks at you like you’ve caused him such grievance, such hardship, that he cannot rest until you pay.

“You see?” the reaper hisses, as he stalks ever closer, and the darkness in the alley grows behind him with each step as his sadness shifts to cold and bitter anger, “He never loved you.”

It is now you realize that your death was not written.

This reaper marked you down to die by his own free will.

You should be angry - what right does he have, this harbinger of death, to decide that you, with your hopes and your dreams and your life yet to be lived, should die now? And for what? For daring to fall in love with the man that he loved first?

You ought to be bitter and angry and wronged, but all you can muster is pity - all you can feel is sad.

You know so little of love. Just enough to learn how much joy it can bring, how much it can make life worth living, just by being near and speaking with and touching the person you loved. Even if it turned out the one you loved didn’t love you after all, at the very least, you had him, and he had you.

You can’t imagine what it must be like, to love without being able to act on it out of something you cannot control.

For how long has this reaper followed the man he loved, watching him live his cursed immortal life in the company of others, knowing he would never be able to reach him, that even death that would reunite them was impossible to be permanently given, and that his opposite would never know he was there to watch over him?

At the opening of the alley, Felix has found the strength to stand, is looking back, and he looks pensive, perhaps sad. At first you think he’s watching the reaper leaning over you, but then you remember, he can no longer see him. No, Felix turned back to look at you, as you die.

Perhaps he thinks you are already dead, beyond all help, as you are.

Perhaps he’s wondering if the reaper he loves is doing his job, reaping souls from those left here, dead.

Perhaps, and you hope, he did love you after all, a quiet bloom of feeling that was small, but no less genuine than any feeling he has had before.

Whatever the reason, you are comforted enough by his quiet gaze to settle some of your fears as the reaper prepares to finally, mercifully, end your drawn out crawl towards the end of your life. You turn your gaze away from the man who stole your heart and face steadily with newfound bravery, the man who will be stealing your soul at the end of your life.

You face death head on and wait.

As this spiteful reaper takes hold of your soul to rip you from your earthly bonds - to begin the start of whatever comes next for your fleeting mortal soul - you wonder how long it has been since Felix was cursed to wander without escape from the mortal coil; how long it’s been since the man he loved was pulled into Death’s servitude; how long it’s been since their punishments made it so that they cannot meet, except in the fleeting moments where, briefly, Felix suffers the act of going through death and they treasure the moments they can share while Felix’s body recovers in quiet agony.

What could they have done to deserve it?

As the final tethers of your mortal existence come apart to release you with your body’s final breath, you dare to hope that perhaps, one day, their long, enduring punishments might end, and they’ll once more be reunited to see and hear and touch each other freely, as two people who love each other should get the chance to do.

Your love story in this life has no happy ending.

But as your mortal awareness snaps and breaks, you find that to be the least of your regrets to be had.

**Author's Note:**

> also on [tumblr](http://redqueenequilibrium.tumblr.com/post/108473583033/death-is-a-jealous-lover)
> 
> please let me know if I should tag for anything else (:


End file.
